


Descent Suspension

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Canon, Sensuality, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: The descent is slow -- soft -- gentle. Aziraphale wraps the long ends of the ropes around one hand, levering Crowley steadily downward. With the other, he cradles Crowley's head, guiding him into a much more comfortable position than the one he ascended from. The bed is plush and solid beneath him, the rumpled comforter cool.





	Descent Suspension

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by artwork by [gingerhaole & thunderheadfred ](https://twitter.com/gingerhaole/status/1165035383672885248?s=20)
> 
> I have not yet seen the series, only the book! Characterizations are based upon my thoughts about what they're like beyond the text of the book as a result. The plot is set somewhere in the nebulous "post-canon" & "what AG remembers from her urgent, marathon read" universe.

After the Apocalypse, or the Unapocalypse, Heaven and Hell fell silent. Not truly silent, they were always there lurking at the edges of things, but they'd ceased to meddle in Crowley and Aziraphale's affairs for the time being. That said, they'd also ceased meddling in the affairs of humanity (which were, of course, Crowley and Aziraphale's affairs). 

It was perhaps that the Unapocalypse really _was_ what the Word had predicted. What humans considered _the Word_. Taken literally, "apocalypse" and "revelation" were the same. [1]

Revelations had been _revelated_ in the most surprising manner that they possibly could have been. It occurred to Crowley as he made his way home at the end of it all, that humanity hadn't been the only ones to forget what words meant or to take them too literally. The thing that had really made him ponder it all had been something Anathema Device had said in passing about the meaning of _nice_ and how it didn't mean _nice_, as in the common understanding of the word, at all.

The Apocalypse, then, had never been about ending the world in a bout of destruction brought on by the whims of a child and the iron will of DEATH and War and Famine and... who was that other one? It had been Plague and then Pestilence... Pollution -- that was it, which seemed to somehow be the natural order of things; Pestilence's rage-quit aside. The humans had different concerns in different ages and a different rider would need to handle the job for the whole ruckus to be successful. [2]

But the Apocalypse! What it had really been all about, Crowley thought, was to catch everyone in their assumptions. To debunk the existence of the Ineffable Plan. It hadn't ever been about a final war in which Heaven or Hell would win or lose. It had been about the perseverance of Free Will and the ultimate Humanity of, well, humanity.

As all of this was bouncing around in Crowley's head, other thoughts had also begun to ricochet off of the smooth round edge of the musket ball of the Unapocalypse. Those thoughts were primarily composed of what felt like constantly heating and cooling drops of magma and concerned with what the _absolute fuck_ had been the purpose of _any of it_?

It made Crowley question the very fabric of his existence. Truly, why was he here at all? Why had he wound up an agent of Hell?

In his most vain moments, when everything else was fairly quiet, Crowley was determined that it had been a fix. He'd been too curious, too thoughtful.

If only he'd been as stalwart in his faith as Aziraphale.

In his less vain moments, Crowley was certain that he was going absolutely mad. The houseplants had never flourished as well as they did in the weeks following the day the world did not end.

"Aziraphale," Crowley asks in an uncharacteristically sober tone. "What do you say we get out of here?"

"We've only just gotten here." Aziraphale's face is open and curious. "We haven't seen any of the exhibition yet."

It was just after opening hours and the museum was practically their own. [3] The gentle tap of their footfalls echoed in the gallery. The stillness of it all, untouched and unaffected, wasn't distracting Crowley the way he'd hoped. It unnerved him, instead. He could hardly bear it.

"I meant here-here. It's been ages since we've been anywhere else. How about the baths in Barcelona? That was always a good time." Aziraphale was particularly entertaining when he was pink and woozy with the heat of the spring.

He seems to consider the matter very seriously for a long moment, leading Crowely toward the opposite end of the gallery. "Alright," he finally answers. The smile he turns on Crowley is radiant, something of a halo in it. "We'll leave in the morning."

"I've an inkling there's a flight leaving in an hour or so. I bet if we hurry, we could catch it."

"A flight?"

"Yes."

"Yes, alright, I suppose a flight could be quite diverting." He offers Crowley his elbow in an uncharacteristically generous, gentlemanly gesture. Crowley takes it. Something inside of him twists up and breaks.

Crowley lets Aziraphale have the window seat. Peering down at the world below feels to familiar, too intimate -- in an utterly distant and unattainable way. Aziraphale, on the other hand, marvels at Creation as they pass over it.

"My dear, I forget how big the world is sometimes," he says with a laugh and sips the woeful cup of tea the attendant brought for him. "I thought we'd just pop over in the Bentley. With your driving it wouldn't have taken long at all." [4]

He somehow grins at his own teasing and frowns at the tea at the same time. Crowley told him not to do it. It was _American_ Airlines, what else did he expect? Aziraphale politely chugs the offensive beverage and pushes the cup away. He slouches in his seat, hands folded over his soft belly, and continues to gaze dreamily out the window as they pass over the Channel.

Crowley would like, just a little bit, to strangle him, very gently. He hasn't been able to wrap his head around Aziraphale's unflagging optimism -- his complete lack of questioning. [5]

When they step off the plane and onto Spanish soil, Crowley realizes it really has been far too long since he's left London -- really since he's escaped the draw of Tadfield. He can't remember in the slightest what part of Barcelona the baths were in. For all he knew they weren't even there any longer.

He'll figure it out, he thinks to himself as they stroll through all the various checks and toward the doors with miraculous ease. He's resourceful. He'll give himself that. If he didn't believe it before, he was damn well sure of it now. He's always thought himself clever. Downright creative! But resourceful was another story.

Crowley finds himself distracted and suddenly alone. His arm is warm where Aziraphale's hand had rested, but the hand is no longer there. Aziraphale is no longer there. Panic seizes Crowley's chest and he turns around in place, head whipping about and searching frantically.

"You silly serpent, come here!" Aziraphale's voice cuts through the crowds waiting outside for loved-ones cars and cabs. He's waving and smiling from the curb, a hand on the door of a car.

Crowley's face turns hot with embarrassment and he closes the distance in a few long strides, diving into the back seat with no further prompting.

"Is everything quite alright, Crowley-dear?" Aziraphale asks curiously, the bit between his eyebrows wrinkled with it.

"Yes, yes fine," Crowley waves the inquiry away with a sharp flick of his wrist and slouches down in the seat. He folds his arms and covers his face, knees poking around either side of the seat in front. The driver cuts through the crowd of vehicles to pull out onto the road-proper. "Just tell the man where we're going, angel."

Aziraphale is annoyed by the sharp tone but he leans toward the driver and consults for a moment. He seems very pleased with himself after some extended debate and sits back, patting Crowley's thigh and settling in for the ride.

Crowley focuses all of his energy on directing the car, parting traffic like the Red Sea and gently pushing the driver to simply go where the pair were imagining -- no address required. Resourceful. The scenery zips by at exactly the speed limit. They make all their turns exactly at the right moment. They make every traffic signal in just the nick of time. It is with a great measure of confusion and considerable angst that Crowley finds himself standing not in front of a magnificent, ancient bathhouse, but an astonishingly narrow stonework building with perfectly clear windows filled to the brim with mouth-watering pastries and sweets.

"Where the hell -- where the _heck_ \--where _on Earth_ did you tell that driver to take us? This isn't where we're meant to be at all." He can't keep the frustration out of his tone. A pair of pensioners struggle out the door, their arms laden with pretty cardstock boxes tied up with string and white paper bags with crisp, folded tops. Aziraphale hustles over to hold the door for them and Crowley steps aside, resisting the urge to will them toward the deep puddle in the a dip in the sidewalk.

"Well, I -- I --" Another patron takes advantage of Aziraphale's courtesy, and then another. His cheeks turn a flustered pink and finally he steps away from the door. "I told him to go to the bathhouse! That is was just _heavenly_," he says a little dreamily.

"Well, he certainly understood you perfectly well, then!" Crowley jabs a finger toward the sign above the big display window: _Caelum_. [6] "Perhaps your accent was off."

"That's impossible and you know it. Angels are universally fluent. We are able to be understood in any language our conversational partner prefers."

Crowley doesn't argue any further, it's not worth it and fairly the opposite of what this little excursion is intended for. Instead, he strides toward the door and holds it open, gesturing Aziraphale inside. The air in the bakery is perfumed with sugar and spice and the merchandise is as much a feast for the eyes as it must be for the mouth and stomach. Aziraphale lights up as he makes his slow way across the length of the counters.

"Perhaps we're meant to have come --"

"Don't say it."

"Let's stay for a treat. I always found those springs too hot, anyway." [7] Aziraphale gasps in delighted surprise, his toes against a grate in the floor and staring wide-eyed to the space below. "Oh, yes, let's? Look, there's a charming little seating area." He points down and sure enough, there are people at cafe tables below enjoying desserts and drinks in the ancient-looking stone basement.

The table that they are seated at is tucked into a corner. The waitress seems uneasy as she pulls Crowley's seat out for him and he's not sure if it's simply that she is tuned into the universe a bit more than most or that his resting expression has turned entirely sour. The light from above bounces into the carved out niche and casts a celestial glow against the wall, the heavenly feeling of it only enhanced by the romantic flicker of the massive, stumpy candle on the shelf just above their heads. Their table is promptly filled with a number of treats. There's hardly room for the dishes they're brought over on. The edges of the plates must overlap to fit and the scent of fruit and sugar is nearly nauseating.

Aziraphale sighs into the mug of thick, rich hot chocolate he holds in both hands. He closes his eyes and takes a long sip. The pink tip of his tongue glides along his lips when he places the mug down again. "I think I know what's happened."

Crowley sits up, hungry for Aziraphale to finally engage with the massive tangle of questions that Adam had created. He leans in over the mountain of sweets just by fractions. He can't let Aziraphale think he's _too_ interested, that would be entirely undue.

"This place _was_ a bath. A holy place, I can tell. The the walls are practically vibrating with it."

Crowley deflates. He's more disappointed in himself than in Aziraphale. "I guess your accent wasn't off, then, angel."

Crowley picks at a pile of sweets in front of him. The strawberry tarts look far too sticky. The cakes look too rich, the biscuits too flaky. He settles on a log-shaped confection and dips it into his own mug before he takes an aggressive bite. The safe-looking treat turns out to be anything but. The marzipan sticks to his teeth and the creamy custard inside coats the inside of his mouth in a fatty film. He swallows hard and wishes they had a bottle of wine -- it would have at least gone well with the macabre serving. Crowley is sure that the _saint's bones_ aren't even available this time of the year.

Aziraphale has done something, he's sure. He can imagine the holy sisters who make all of the delicious things that they've been informed are served here becoming confused when their work space was suddenly full of the wrong ingredients and they were compelled to roll femurs and fill them with sweet marrow. He pictures one of them rushing to deliver the order, utterly bewildered behind the wheel of the convent bus streaking down cobbled streets -- if they even do or have that sort of thing. All the holy fraternities and sororities are so different. He'd been quite friendly with a sister from New Jersey who wore a plain skirt and blouse and ditched the head covering. She'd enjoyed a nice Guinness and a football game on a Sunday afternoon.

"Crowley, something's the matter." Aziraphale purses his lips in displeasure.

"No there isn't."

"Yes there is, I can tell. After thousands of years I think I know your moods." He leans across the the table in a conspiratorial fashion. "Is there someone from your side here? Are we being surveilled?"

"What?" Crowley barks, his voice ringing against the vaulted ceilings. A few people turn to look, their quiet parties disrupted. "Of course not, why would you think that?"

"You're very... on edge? Pins and needles? Something, dear, is wrong."

Crowley bounces his knees beneath the table. "Angel, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly at ease."

"Crowley, you -- "

"Yes! Yes, obviously!" Aziraphale's brow shoots toward his hairline, eyes wide with surprise. The cafe goes a bit quieter, like the sky before a storm. "The entire Apocalypse was absolutely stuffed by a couple of children and we haven't heard hide nor hair [8] of either side since! Something is _wrong_, Aziraphale, they're _never_ quiet for this long. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and the world to end or to - to - get dragged down there for good and you're just... _fine._" Crowley seizes the half-eaten strawberry tart from in front of Aziraphale and shoves it wholly into his mouth to shut himself up. He chews with vigor, sticky sugar syrup beaded at the corners of his lips.

A wave of calm sweeps across the cafe and the other patrons return to their desserts and conversation. Crowley mumbles an apology, crumbs dropping from his lips. He chokes and dabs at his front with a napkin, relieving the cemented-shut feel of his mouth with a gulp of hot chocolate.

"I am _not_ just fine," Aziraphale hisses. A waitress comes by to ask them how they are and he asks for their haul to be boxed up. "If you'd just bring them here, that'll be fine." She protests for a moment that it would be far too difficult to do there at the table. Aziraphale insists and, confused, she fetches the flat boxes and string. "Thank you, dear, that's all." He dismisses her in the way a headmaster might dismiss a difficult student, polite but exhausted, and turns back to the table. With a casual wave of a hand everything is packed away neatly and stacked in perfect size order. "Why don't we go home now, hm?"

"Could we just..." Crowley feels like a left-over balloon, bobbing just a breath above the floor a week after the party is over. "Find a hotel or something? I can't deal with the airport twice in one day."

Aziraphale doesn't argue. Arms laden with bakery boxes, they make their way outside and follow their intuition to the nearest lodgings. There is, of course, a room available even though the hotel is entirely otherwise booked. There's no need to pay. It has somehow simply been covered, the bill in the computer marked as _zero_ before they've even begun.

The room is beautiful, just like the city and the late afternoon sun that floods the space. Crowley closes the curtains and drops himself onto the sofa, fairly sullen in attitude. With slumped shoulders and folded arms he watches Aziraphale make a round of the place and smile at the details. He fingers fabrics and inspects artwork up close. He makes a delighted sound when he pokes his head into the grand bathroom.

He's reasoning something out for himself, Crowley can feel it. The air is charged in that particular way it is when one of the favorites comes down to bestow a _Be Not Afraid _on some poor, fragile human. Crowley isn't a frightened, newly betrothed teenage girl. _Ugh_, he thinks, if only Mary had truly understood what she was getting into. The poor thing. Resentment bubbles in his gut with pound of sugar he's poured into it.

"The world did not end for a _reason_, Crowley," Aziraphale finally says as he comes to stop in front of the sofa, standing over him. "There is some value yet in this Creation. Something... something that Heaven and Hell are meant to learn. Something larger than the final great battle."

"To learn? Angel, someone's scrambled your sensibilities. Since when has _learning_ ever been valued up there? They punished poor Eve for wanting to learn. Punished her husband for listening to sense. Why would gaining any sort of new knowledge be the goal?"

"And _who --_" Aziraphale stops himself and Crowley's eyes widen.

"I did my job well, angel, before and after they tossed me. You know it. I was punished_ just_ as much as they were for it too," Crowley pauses, staying himself, and then continues in a more sober tone. "And I was punished just the same, doomed to crawl on my belly and be scorned by humanity."

"You know very well that is pure literary device, no such thing happened."

"But didn't it?" He grits his teeth. "And I didn't have some magnanimous celestial being offering me a sword to cope with it."

"Crowley, I don't know what you want me to say. You're a demon, your duty was and is to tempt humans to -- "

"That's where you're wrong, angel, I don't tempt. I inspire."

Aziraphale purses his pink lips and his cheeks flush. He finally sits.

"What do you do, Aziraphale, really? I don't understand it. If there is this great ineffible plan then what truly is your role in it? You had nothing to do with the Antichrist until I came to you. You... you had nothing to do with _anything_. Our arrangement is -- is -- is _meaningless_. All you do sit in your shop with your dusty books and glower at the occasional would-be customer!"

Crowley can feel himself grow sillier and sillier. He can feel his cheeks go red. He can feel his ears begin to burn. His eyes sting.

He can't stop himself.

"Aren't your lot supposed to be out there _inspiring_ goodness in humanity? Some tacit Grace that's underneath all of their potential for wickedness! Small kind acts like helping old ladies over puddles and paying for someone's groceries when they're short? What, Aziraphale, _what_? You've grown utterly complacent! And if you, the Angel of the Eastern Gate, have lost your enthusiasm for your Heavenly duties that what the _hell_ am I even here for? Why'm I working my tail off if none of it really matters? Why, Aziraphale, was I _cast out_ if I have no purpose? If I am so utterly unimportant as to have someone who does _nothing_ sent to foil me? Why are we set in direct opposition if nothing either one of us does drives _anything_ forward or backward on either side?"

He's nearly shouting by the end of it, microbubbles of spittle caught on his bottom lip.

He's made absolutely no sense and he knows it. If he were a plant he'd shout at himself. He'd positively flourish.

Aziraphale smooths the front of his waistcoat, fingers gliding over the weave of the tapestry-like fabric. He stands and takes a deep breath. "I believe I'm going have a soak in that magnificent tub," he says in a quiet, steady voice. "Then perhaps we'd like to make our way home after all."

"Angel, I -- "

Aziraphale's stride is confident, his head high and the fingers of his right hand tucked primly into the little watch-pocket of the vest. Crowley gets up and clears the room in half the number of steps, moving toward the bathroom. The water in the tub begins to run and the door shuts with a solid, final _thunk._

Crowley snarls at the shiny polish of the door and flees back into the room. He's a whirlwind of unfettered confusion, knocking things over and righting them again before settling on smashing the pot of the generic looking plant in the corner of the sitting area and shouting down at the wreckage of ceramic and soil at his feet: "Boring, skinny things don't deserve nice pottery anyway! Come back when you've sprouted a flower or twelve you fucking ficus!" [9]

He turns in place, grinding the soil into the plush carpet with the pointed toe of his boot. He feels a bit like a pit has opened in his gut, growling and gurgling in outrage. The pristine boxes from _Caelum_ are still stacked there on the little side table and Crowley seizes the one on top. The contents of the box slide inside and smack against the stiff cardboard.

He sits on the bed -- really rather throwing himself bonelessly and curling around the box. He's got half a mind to just leave. It wouldn't be right, though. If he's learned anything from humanity it's that apologies are best fresh and heartfelt, contrition delivered in a timely manner. Turning up at the book shop in a week wouldn't do, not now after everything.

The knot in the pretty twine refuses to come undone. Annoyed, Crowley rips into the corner of the box, tearing the top flap in half and crushing the edges. He liberates the xuxo inside with a sudden explosion of sugar and pastry flake. He eats with relish, the thick, yellowy custard sticking to his fingers and the corners of his mouth when he crushes the delicate layers of dough with his teeth.

The box is empty before he has any inclination to stop. Despondent, he plucks at the strings that dangle uselessly now from the wreckage of the cardboard.

He crumples them in his fist and they're soft, the cotton cord springy in his palm and warming under the pressure. His hands are sweaty. The string gets damp and he drops it.

The sky outside is inching toward evening through the sliver of visible window between the curtains. The clouds are starting to look heavy, like it might rain or might not. It reminds Crowley of That Day and he wonders quite seriously for a moment if it's about to start again -- for real this time, the genuine article Apocalypse.

He puts the thought from his head picks at the string again, wrapping it tight around his thumb and making the flesh go stripey white-and-red. The pad of the finger throbs with his heartbeat.

The water in the bathroom runs again, the sound of it being sucked down the drain rather than filling the tub this time. Crowley imagines Aziraphale standing and stepping carefully over the edge of the tub onto the mat. There is silence for a moment before the loud _whoosh_ of a hair dryer. Crowley chokes down a laugh and it comes out sounding crushed and wet. The angel is most certainly taking his time, avoiding emerging from the bathroom.

Lost somewhere between thought and not-thought, Crowley barely notices the sound of the bathroom door opening or Aziraphale's footfall. [10] He nearly jumps out of his skin when the mattress dips. Hands clenched into tight fists, Crowley turns to Aziraphale and gapes like a fish -- or as much so as one can when their jaw is locked tight. He knows he should apologize and can't make the words form on his tongue. They stick like slime in his throat.

Aziraphale puts a hand up and shakes his head. He looks like a bloke in a party costume, dressed up like an angel in a very white bathrobe and his hair all mussed in a cloud. All he's missing is a halo of tinfoil and pipe cleaners.

Crowley closes his mouth, teeth clacking together. Quietly, Aziraphale takes his hands, fingertips gliding over the tight loops of bakery box string. Crowley's numb fingers burn under the touch. Aziraphale picks his fingers apart, forcing them to uncurl, and unwinds the string. Circulation rushes back in and the pain of it is sharp and fast. Aziraphale rubs the life back into them, pressing hard and squeezing.

Silently, he shifts, sliding closer to Crowley. His steadiness is unnerving. He unsticks the sweaty clump of cotton string from Crowley's palm, untangling it. He takes one of Crowley's trembling hands and spreads the fingers just-so. Crowley hardly catches the movements that follow. His fingers are trapped in a lattice; a soft basketweave of over-under binds middle, index, and ring together. Aziraphale slips the string over and around in gentle movements. His eyes flick up, regarding Crowley through impossibly blonde lashes.

Something cracks.

"Take off your clothes," Aziraphale mutters.

"Excuse me?"

"Take them off."

"I hardly think think that's the best way to -- "

"Would you trust me, for just a moment?"

"Only a moment, then?"

"Cheeky bastard," Aziraphale grumbles. He pulls gently on the string he's woven around Crowley's fingers and the tension tightens for a second before it unravels.

Aziraphale's gaze is a tremendous weight. He sits there on the bed with his hands folded in his lap and his head cocked like he's listening to a particularly demanding bookshop client. His legs are bare, sticking out from the robe. His toes don't touch the floor.

Crowley takes off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket. He turns around in place for a moment, searching for where he should put it down. When he's finally naked he stands there, clutching his socks and wringing them. "What now?"

"Sit down," Aziraphale sings more than says. He pats the bed and stands. "Just here." He gathers up the destroyed bakery box with a little haughty frown on his lips. He drops it into the rubbish bin and turns back to Crowley. "Well? Go on then?"

Crowley sits and the bedding is warm where Aziraphale was. He breathes out, stalled by light from the window and how it makes the angel's edges look fuzzy with his white head and white robe and blemishless skin. Aziraphale is talking, his lips are moving, but Crowley can't hear what he's saying.

"What?"

"I said, scoot back, Crowley-dear."

He does, moving back on the mattress, lifting his feet from the floor. Aziraphale touches him, light and soft like the bedding he's sitting on, and guides his knee upward.

_What are you doing, angel?_ He thinks, the muscle in his thigh tense. 

Aziraphale leans past him and reaches for the abandoned string. At once it is no longer bakery-box twine, as if it never was, like it had always existed as the thick, strong rope that he winds around his hand to inspect. He's meticulous about it in the same way that he is meticulous about his most valuable books. Crowley watches him like he's watching someone else entirely -- finding the middle of the rope and wrapping it twice about Crowley's own ankle. He crosses everything over itself and tucks the center loop beneath, tying it all off into a tidy knot.

Crowley finds himself fascinated by the weight of the rope around his ankle and the way the long ends lay against the widest bit of his thigh when Aziraphale flips them around once -- twice -- thrice. Aziraphale ties another perfectly neat -- _nice_ \-- knot right at the inside of his knee. Aziraphale looks cross when he giggles. He can't help it, not with his leg resembling one of those cured salamis they hang from the ceilings in delicatessens. Suddenly, there is more rope and his other leg is being nudged into position. The tying is faster this time, Aziraphale's movements more sure.

Crowley grows incredibly tired. Not tired, exactly, but heavy and slow. It's exceedingly strange but not all that bad. He follows instructions without really registering them. He shifts onto his knees, sitting on his ankles.

"Turn 'round, then."

"Mm?"

"Turn _around_, Crowley."

"Mm."

He shuffles. The bedding twists under his knees, frozen ripples on a cream-colored pond. He shivers at the touch of fingers against his arms.

"May I?"

"Hm? Mm. May you what?"

"Tie these as well?"

Crowley laughs. "Why not?" He takes it as granted that by miracle more of the soft, strong rope appears. He closes his eyes and behind his back the rope loops around his wrists and then his forearms, again and again, and finally a solid loop goes through the middle. He doesn't see what's happening, of course, but he imagines it and what it must look like. He's very away of the tension of all of the loops and knots, how each one is tight but not too-tight. A thought begins to form in his head, each bit of it crawling like so many inchworms along a springy stem. "Angel, this isn't very... _angelic_. Where'd you ever learn anything like this?"

Aziraphale sighs, his hands holding Crowley's there behind his back, all four clasped together tenderly. "Not all of my clients are interested in books on theology and mysticism. Not everyone is looking for rare bibles."

"Have you been trussing people up in that back room of yours?" Crowley's voice is high and tight with disbelief.

"Of course not," Aziraphale hisses. "I've a client who is interested in unconventional art. I've sourced several unusual texts for them. One learns things in the course of authenticating, especially items that have been banned or otherwise censored. I can show you a woodcut if you like, back at the shop."

Aziraphale plants a hand between Crowley's shoulders and asks him very gently to lie down. He flops forward gracelessly and earns an annoyed little huff in response.

"What kind of unusual texts, angel?" Crowley asks the bedding. He imagines Aziraphale handling a dirty magazine with white cotton gloves, wrapping it up in crisp brown paper and accepting cash under the counter.

"A history of the Edo period, in particular. [11]" Aziraphale's tone dips its toes into snobbery. "Do you trust me?" he asks in a more serious voice.

"I suppose so."

"_Crowley_."

"Yes."

"Relax, then. I won't let you fall."

The ropes shift, the ends tickling against him. Crowley cranes his head around, peering over his shoulder. Aziraphale tosses the long ends of ropes wrapped about his legs up and over the frame of the bedposts. It'll never hold, Crowley muses as Aziraphale tugs the lines and his legs lift. It's not the most comfortable way to be bent and he wonders if it might not have been better the other way around? He doesn't voice this concern, too delighted by the deep furrow in Aziraphale's brow and the pursed little frown on his lips.

Crowley gasps in surprise. With a single, sharp pull that betrays the strength in Aziraphale's customary form, Crowley is in the air. Somehow, the post-frame holds. Somehow, there is plenty of room between his knees and the bar and his head and the mattress. He swings just slightly and his head feels very full, the ocean in his ears. His shoulders sting, arms too heavy as they are, and then they're tugged up, too, and his knuckles are resting up against his heels. The bedding below is messed, dragged by his body across the mattress. Crowley struggles not to laugh out loud.

"Is this... is this a picture in your _unusual text_?" His tongue is clumsy, he hardly gets the words out. He blinks slowly and what seemed like a brilliant blindness is really just the bright white of Aziraphale's robe filling his view.

"Perhaps," Aziraphale answers, just a bit snobby again. "Just breathe then, hmm? I'll be right here."

Aziraphale steps back and away and sinks down onto the sofa. Crowley... hangs there. Rather stunned. He shifts and the rope creaks. He holds his breath, waiting to crash down in a clatter of snapped and splintered wood.

He doesn't fall.

His limbs tingle vaguely. The posture he's been bound into isn't uncomfortable so much as it is unusual. His head feels just a bit like it's going to pop but he finds if he breathes very slowly, filling his chest completely and then emptying it again, that it's not really all that terrible.

"Are you comfortable?" Aziraphale asks. The sound is fuzzy and soft.

"Ngk."

"That's nice, Crowley-dear."

Crowley refuses to look at the floor. Held aloft as he is, it feels _right_. Aloft. If he looks down, if he acknowledges the floor as it rushes up to meet him, he --

Doesn't very much want to think about it.

Crowley has a reputation, a shtick. He did not Fall, as he tells it, so much as he sauntered vaguely Downward, enticed by the freedom and creativity of the lower realms. It wasn't entirely untrue in spirit, but in practice it was a complete fabrication. Crowley Fell. Crowley Fell in a somersault that left his throat raw with fright and an ache in his bones that lasted ages. He'd done to that poor Woman in the Garden what he'd done to himself -- asked too many questions, wanted too much, sought deeper meaning where he'd been expected to trust unfailingly. So he Fell. And he'd continued to fall in every age, pulling humanity -- pulling Aziraphale down with him.

The sun sinks in the sky and the room floods with the bright, orangey fire of it. Crowley finds he can't do much more than gurgle, the helpless sound of it stuck in his chest just where his throat decides if it wants to lead into his stomach or his lungs. Aziraphale stands, tutting like he's scolding a pet that doesn't know better than to claw the furniture.

"Now, now," the angel murmurs. He strokes the long plane of Crowley's stomach and chest, stretched taut where he hangs. He steps up close and Crowley's head fills with the scent of whatever posh soap he used in the bath. His nose brushes the soft, fluffy robe and Aziraphale scratches just in front of his ears. "You, Crowley, are a _demon. _There isn't any escaping that."

"_Unhg._"

"But you're not a Demon." Crowley can hear the capital letter, the distinction Aziraphale's made. "You've never been _evil_. Rightly naughty!"

Crowley snorts and cranes himself forward, pressing his face into the plush pile of the robe and the inviting pudge of Aziraphale beneath it. It's warm, like leaning close to a fireplace in the Autumn.

"You're... you're still angel-stock. And you've paid for your Fall, Crowley. You can't..." He's struggling to find words for what he wants to say, that much is exceedingly obvious. He's trying to maintain his air of superiority and only succeeding at the barest bit. "No one is perfect. Certainly not you or I, we know that intimately in practice."

Aziraphale's hands run though Crowley's hair and he tries to press himself as close as he possibly can. He imagines that under the clean scent of the soap, Aziraphale smells something like the light that's burning through the bit of bare windowpane. Soft hands press hard into his scalp and then across the tension in his neck and the blades of his shoulders. Crowley imagines for a brief moment that Aziraphale is stroking his wings, massaging the heavy muscles that hold them. He trembles from head to toe.

"Perfect is a state only attainable by the Almighty." There is a pause, full of foreboding. Aziraphale whispers, "And I'm not entirely certain any more that that is an ineffible truth. Perhaps it once was. But things are inescapably different now."

Crowley make a small, wet sound, his body tense. Aziraphale gathers him close, tucking his arms around Crowley's body. His breath is warm and damp against Crowley's hip.

"Are you ready to come down?"

He's not. He wants to float where he is and listen to Aziraphale blaspheme and admit to his own shortcomings. But, Aziraphale's tone has something of a command in it, an expectation of compliance and a desire to halt this inspiring bit of rare introspection. In the haze of it all Crowley understands this. He nods and flexes his fingers and toes, his mouth refusing to do much by way of response.

The descent is slow -- soft -- gentle. Aziraphale wraps the long ends of the ropes around one hand, levering Crowley steadily downward. With the other, he cradles Crowley's head, guiding him into a much more comfortable position than the one he ascended from. The bed is plush and solid beneath him, the rumpled comforter cool. Crowley's shoulders burn, the weight of his torso pressing down on them bound the way they are. The room spins and he squirms onto his side. Silently, Aziraphale begins to unknot the precise columns of smooth loops about his forearms.

Released, his body sags.

Aziraphale pats his cheek. It's as patronizing as it is sweet. He moves around the bed, hefting himself upward onto the mattress. Quietly, he crawls toward the pillows and arranges himself around Crowley's legs. "You need to move your arms, my dear," he instructs, "Come on then."

Crowley groans and shifts. His arms are admittedly a little numb laying as he is, although he will not _actually_ admit to it. He rolls his shoulders and curls and uncurls his fingers. Feeling almost as if his hands are not his own, he touches the marks on his forearms and wrists, the ghostlike imprints of the rope's texture on his skin fascinating. The jellied feeling in his arms crawls into his chest and settles in his belly. Eyes heavy, he lets them close, dozing as Aziraphale releases his legs from their binding.

There is a lazy jolt of adrenaline that zooms sluggish and thick up the column of his spine -- Aziraphale is touching his feet, rubbing between his toes and pressing the fat pads of his thumbs into the arches. Crowley breathes in deeply the scent of snooty hotel lotion and the sensation of the thick, creamy stuff on the tops of his feet and circling around his ankles is obscene. Hazy memories of dusty, tired feet and coppery hair damp with oil that cost as much as a whole livelihood [12] flit across his consciousness and he nearly demands Aziraphale stop.

The angel hums something unintelligible [13], rubbing Crowley's legs and lifting and bending them, pinching his toes teasingly and starting all over again. When Crowley's legs feel heavy and limp, like uncooked Cumberland sausages -- fat with the pulse of his tingling nerves, Aziraphale sighs and settles back against the pile of pillows. Sinking into the down stuffing, he watches Crowley from his position just slightly above.

"You'll enjoy the bath in there, I think."

"_Ermhrmph_," Crowley says and fiddles with the bakery-string-_cum_-rope-_cum_-string-again. "Ineffibly," he mumbles, wondering just how not-wrong Aziraphale's accent might have actually been.

* * *

1\. According to linguistic history, at the very least according to the more popular of the internet search engines, _apocalypse_ came from Old English which came from Old French which came from Latin and Greek quite far back and meant "to uncover" or "reveal." [Back to text.]

2\. Many of them conflated Plague and Pestilence as a single being when, in fact, they were separate entities concerned with different forms of illness.The American translations handed the job to Conquest, which fit quite well with the other two if Crowley really gave it a good long think-about. [Back to text.]

3\. 10:13 AM, precisely -- nicely. [Back to text.]

4\. Driving, water and border crossings all considered, would have taken somewhere around fifteen hours. If asked, neither angel nor demon would have willingly been kept cooped up with the other that long, no matter how friendly [Back to text.]

5\. Aziraphale had asked exactly one question and it had been: "Good gracious, why are you in that flower pot? It's wet." When once Crowley had thought that spending a bit of time in a familiar skin might have been helpful. [Back to text.]

6\. The Latin name of the bakery, indeed, meant _Heaven. _And it was, indeed, a bath. Many, many years past. The location has been built above the archaeological remains of a Jewish women's bath dating back to the Middle Ages. Whether the mix-up was unfortunate or not shall remain to be seen. [Back to text.]

7\. Crowley often found them barely tepid, he could hardly soak up enough heat even with his back pressed flush against the stone walls of the bath. He's never mentioned this to Aziraphale. It's entirely too personal. [Back to text.]

8\. While a wholly American phrase, it was one Crowley enjoyed. Inverses were terribly entertaining and this was one of a phrase that went back as far as Chaucer, the saucy chap. [Back to text.]

9\. The plant was not ficus and Crowley was actually quite fond of the genus in general. Their roots tend to grow very fast, strangling gardens and destroying sidewalks when outdoors. [Back to text.]

10\. He shouldn't blame himself, really, the carpet was terribly thick and angels step very lightly. They float, really, just a scant breath above whatever surface they're walking over. Aziraphale could be just as graceful as a member of the Berezka Ensemble if he wanted to, he simply didn't try. [Back to text.]

11\. _An History of Edo and Tokyo Manners _by Seui Ito. The author is considered to be something of the creator of modern sensual, artistic rope-bondage techniques. [Back to text.]

12\. Christ was so grateful, so moved. Crowley nearly wished he was made of holier stuff. And absolutely wished the oil would have washed out of his hair quicker. [Back to text.]

13\. Haydn's [The Creation](https://youtu.be/kaI8x-saprI), has a section somewhere about forty minutes in that might lend itself to a gavotte if one tried very, very hard and didn't mind looking quite silly. [Back to text.]

**Author's Note:**

> This is a terrifying new venture and I love comments! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it <3
> 
> Many many thanks to ydnsm and PockyPuck for their kind character checks and for being such amazing sounding boards for ideas and helping get past blocks. Thanks most especially to yd for helping me work out some of the finer points concerning rope and introspection.


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